


a cork-trapped wine

by pseudocitrus



Series: dawn disrupts me [2]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 05:39:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4907512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They should talk about it. Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a cork-trapped wine

**Author's Note:**

> a continuation asked for by an anon on tumblr, who wanted to know about "the second time."
> 
> the tone is a little different in this chapter...just a little messier.
> 
> hope you're having a good day!

That night ends…not too awkwardly, but not in a great way either.

Urie’s body begins to slant and Mutsuki drags him properly to his bed, which is only a little awkward because Mutsuki’s pants are still unbuttoned, and unfolding down his legs. Once on the bed, Urie curls up and by the time Mutsuki is finished fixing his clothing, Urie is passed out completely. Mutsuki draws a blanket over him. Hesitates just a little more. And then leaves.

_What now_.

Mutsuki doesn’t sleep well; when his eyes close, he feels Urie’s mouth dragging all across on his neck. It’s not unpleasant, but it certainly is — distracting. He thrashes all night and at breakfast Saiko leans over the counter and peers up at his face and asks what’s the matter and Mutsuki can’t even gather the energy to respond. The only consolation is that he has all day to think about what to do before dinner rolls around.

“Ah!” Saiko says. “Uriri.”

Mutsuki stiffens. He stares at the bowl of fruit, aware that his face is getting suddenly, unreasonably, very, hot. He hears Urie walk around the table.

“Good morning, Urie-kun,” Sasaki says cheerfully. “Want an omelet?”

“No,” Urie replies. A gloved hand reaches into the fruit bowl and rifles through the apples before selecting the smallest.

Mutsuki dares to look up. Urie is wearing workout clothes. He is turning the apple over and over, examining it.

His eyes had roved all over Mutsuki like that too, last night. Just as Mutsuki thinks it, Urie glances over at him, and Mutsuki jolts straight.

“Good morning!” he says. Ah, his face is _burning_. Is it obvious? Can anyone tell? “You’re up early! H-how are you feeling? Are you feeling — um — good?”

“Mm,” Urie replies. He takes a bite from the apple, and heads to the door.

“Mutsuki-kun,” Sasaki calls. Mutsuki realizes that Sasaki is holding out a skillet towards Mutsuki’s plate, and probably has been for a while.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry…“

“Are you alright? You look…” Sasaki trails off, head tilted as he stares, and Mutsuki bows his head hastily.

Sensei is a good investigator, but — but there’s no way he can tell, right? That last night, he and Urie were —

And that — on some level, not too far from the surface, Mutsuki — _again_ —

“I’m just tired, Sensei,” Mutsuki mumbles, making a show of rubbing his eyes. A yawn slips out of him, a real one. When he glances up, Sasaki is smiling.

“Well, take it easy, then. Would you like to get some coffee?”

“Maybe not today,” Mutsuki mumbles back.

They should talk about it. Mutsuki rubs his forehead and cheeks, soothingly. If Urie regrets it — or if it was all just — some kind of health-related fluke — well, that would be — fine.

It would be fine.

Mutsuki’s knuckles bulge out against his skin.

In any case, tonight, during dinner, they’ll talk about it.

:::

The evening comes…not too awkwardly, but not in a great way either. Urie wakes up in his empty room with his stomach already twisting, and it only gets worse when he has to make his way through the kitchen. After that, he thinks, surely, the twisting will abate — but the feeling only deepens and spreads as he comes back to the Chateau for dinner.

_Here we go._

A whole day has passed, of smothering. Every hint of anxiety. Every persistent flickering memory of the previous night, which flares up frequently, and at the least convenient moments. That faint scent, whenever he needs to make one last push; that bright taste, hovering on his tongue as he gulps water.

A whole day has passed, of thinking. He can only imagine Mutsuki will want to talk things out and Urie can think of nothing he can say that doesn’t make him nauseous to even consider and in the end it doesn’t matter because the dinner table is completely vacant, and he waits a little and then crushes his plastic water bottle.

There is no fucking way that all of today’s thinking is going to go to fucking waste.

He stomps upstairs, to Mutsuki’s room. The door swings open under the first hard rap of his knuckles. Inside, Mutsuki is collapsed on his bed, haphazardly. Sprawled across his blanket. His breathing is even, and deep, and Urie walks in and looks down. His hand reaches, to shake him awake — and pauses.

Mutsuki belly is totally exposed. It is a mostly-smooth plane, marked with dabs of muscle and the dip of his navel. After some time, Urie manages to tug Mutsuki’s shirt down. Then he retrieves a kicked-off blanket from the floor and drags it over him.

“I’m sorry,” Mutsuki blurts the next morning. Urie regards him as he enters the kitchen.

“For what?”

“Ah…well…for…” He swallows. “Nothing, I guess.”

Mutsuki’s eyes dart down to his hands. Urie himself scans the fruit bowl, and then the kitchen and main area. Both, aside from he and Mutsuki, are empty. He searches again for the smallest apple, and smells it.

“Let’s talk,” Mutsuki says brightly.

“For…for starters,” Mutsuki says, when Urie doesn’t reply, “how are you feeling? Are you…good?”

Why is he always so concerned?

The apple makes a crisp noise as Urie bites into it. He chews, slow, and then holds the apple out.

“How does this taste?”

Mutsuki hesitates, for just a moment, and then takes the apple and opens his mouth. His bite overlaps the one Urie left.

“It tastes fine,” Mutsuki says. “How does it taste to you?”

“Fine,” Urie tells him.

“I see,” Mutsuki says.

He’s frowning.

Urie snatches the apple back.

“It’s fine,” he repeats, taking another huge bite, and Mutsuki’s brows furrow.

It _is_ fine. For a little. But it doesn’t matter what he says, or how many apples he loudly bites into; somehow, Mutsuki can tell. He _knows_ Mutsuki can tell.

They should talk about it. About…the night. About all of it. They should talk about it, probably, somehow, despite the fact that words are packed even more tightly into Urie’s throat than usual, and despite his suspicion that even if he were to somehow hack them out they would be tangled beyond recognition. Not to mention completely nonsensical. And illogical. And generally stupid.

They should talk about it.

But.

What is he supposed to say if Mutsuki asks whether everything that happened was — anything?

And what is he supposed to say if Mutsuki says _Don’t do it again_?

:::

His stomach hurts. This is unacceptable. He can’t tolerate living with this much distraction.

He sees Shiba-sensei. He doesn’t describe exactly what happened, but the arrangements get made anyway.

“It should get better, now,” Urie says, out of the blue, and Mutsuki blinks, and then understands immediately, as usual.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh. Okay. Great.”

:::

The next days pass without them exchanging anything more than hurried glances and short phrases that Urie hopes, vaguely, sound just as terse as usual. The only person who seems to notice the tension of his clipped-off responses is, of course, Mutsuki — though when, exactly, this became an _of course_ thing is beyond him.

On some level he hopes that the further away they get from that night, the more faded the memory of it will get, for both of them. It _should_ be fading, anyway, especially now that his — cell counts, or whatever — are back to normal.

But, for Urie, at least, it’s the opposite that happens. Mutsuki stares when Urie comes down in the mornings and Urie can tell by his focus that he is examining the dark patches beneath his eyes. Urie bites into his apple in the mornings and each time he does the only thing is he can think is it tastes fine, _really_ , but also — inferior. He sighs, without thinking — and then swallows, hard, as _that scent_ twists around his brain again. It happens more and more, and every time it does, the pit of his belly tugs tighter, tighter. The words in his throat get looser, and looser.

“It smells good,” he finds himself saying, one day, when Mutsuki takes the plastic-wrapped plate from the microwave, and Mutsuki pauses, and Urie can see him redden. Just the faintest hue. The slightest tinge on his cheek.

“Did you make it again?” Urie asks, and the plate clatters more than usual as Mutsuki sets it down on the counter.

“Me and Sensei this time,” Mutsuki explains. “He’s teaching me.

“How is it?” Mutsuki asks, when Urie takes a bite, and Urie responds that it’s fine, and — there it is. That fucking “I see” again. That fucking frown. Urie fumes and Mutsuki crosses his arms.

“Just _tell_ me,” Mutsuki says, sounding, for once, exasperated. “You can tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Urie snaps.

Mutsuki bites his lip. “Is it that I…rather, did I…make a mistake?”

Urie blinks at him. He looks down at the food and Mutsuki coughs and says, “No, not with — I mean — the other night.”

Oh.

Great.

They are talking about it.

“Did I make a mistake?” he asks again, and Urie fidgets. He grits his teeth, tries to force the breath through. It feels like all the muscles in his throat are gears with stones caught in the teeth. the word, when he finally shoves it out, is crushed into a croak, and Mutsuki looks distressed.

“What did you say?” he asks, and Urie makes a fist.

_“No,”_ he repeats, through his teeth, and for the first time in days their gazes cross, and hold.

He says more through that brief glare than he ever managed with all their dinners together. Mutsuki swallows.

“Come…come here, then,” he replies, and doesn’t need to say more. His voice is quiet, and a hook between Urie’s ribs. Before he knows it he is standing, and striding, and on the other side of the counter Mutsuki makes an _oof_ noise as they collide.

There’s one last staggered, uncertain breath; then their mouths meet, and press, and press. Urie moves closer and closer until Mutsuki is shoved up against the sink. Their hands grip; their bodies grind; they breathe, somehow, but Urie suddenly hates how much of a nuisance it is. He would rather not have to. He would rather somehow be able to inhale Mutsuki himself, all the warm deliciousness of him, his soft lips and curved ear and luscious quivering throat —

There’s nothing wrong with Urie now, there _shouldn’t_ be anything wrong, but the feeling rushing through him now is just like the one that did before. The squalling hunger — the mindlessness — the helplessness. Something inside of him is trembling, so hard that all of his inhibitions are being shaken away — and what remains is a canvas so blank that nothing protests when Mutsuki gasps, “Not here.” Somehow they make it up to Urie’s room without anyone noticing anything amiss, even when Urie kicks the door shut.

This time, they get onto the bed. It’s only a little strange to see Mutsuki there, sprawled now out across Urie’s own sheets. Urie kneels over him, and has a moment to regard him while he loosens his gloves and removes them. Then he reaches, and slides his bare hands beneath Mutsuki’s sweater — fingers spread, palms flat — feeling the rise and fall of his skin as Mutsuki sighs and stretches.

“You tasted good,” he says, a little hoarsely, “last time,” and as his hand drifts across the buckle of Mutsuki’s pants, Mutsuki flushes.

“Oh…kay,” he murmurs, and after a flail of legs and a rustle of fabric his pants are off. Urie uses the broad part of his thumb to stroke, exactly as Mutsuki taught him before, until Mutsuki’s legs are bending and his hands are clenching the sheets and his boxers are moist. Then, Urie drags the boxers off, and pushes them aside. He shifts around, lying flat between Mutsuki’s thighs, thumbs running back and forth on the bones of his hips. He glances up at Mutsuki’s face — he’s biting his lip, holding his breath — and then Urie looks down again, and opens his mouth.

One lick first — gentle, but enough to make Mutsuki’s thighs squeeze, enough to make Mutsuki clap his hand over his mouth. Urie’s grip tightens and he continues, steadily, up and down one side and then the other and dabbing, dabbing, dabbing. Mutsuki’s ankle is making a rubbing on his shoulder blade and when Urie presses in just a little the way Mutsuki raises his hips up against him makes Urie almost breathless.

This is — it. normally he is focused single-mindedly on his goals, and he supposes that this is still the case now, but the sensations of the person in front of him are more compelling and satisfying than the cold of any medal had ever felt, and he sinks even deeper as Mutsuki’s scent grows around him, as Mutsuki’s flavor fills. Mutsuki is bucking himself up now against Urie’s face again and again like he can think of nothing else. And there’s his voice, too, whining, over and over: “Urie-kun, Urie-kun, _U-Urie_ —”

Mutsuki’s hands dig and yank and push against Urie’s hair, mashing his face closer and closer, in rhythm to Mutsuki’s jerking hips. Then, he cringes; his palm jams against Urie’s forehead, guiding him back, and Urie straightens onto his elbows, watching. The way Mutsuki’s skin prickles — the way his body makes a last couple spasms.

“How…” Urie’s voice breaks; he coughs, licks his lips. “How are you feeling?”

Mutsuki blinks at him. Urie looks away, and continues. “That is…are you…good?”

“Yes,” Mutsuki says, after too long of a moment. “I am.”

The air stales. Urie grits his teeth.

_What now_.

The two of them — it happened again, somehow, suddenly. Should they…is _now_  the time that they should talk about it? What is he supposed to say?

_Mutsuki, I —_

No, that already sounds completely fucking —

_The way I feel is —_

_No_ , that’s even _worse —_

_You see, ever since that day, I just —_

He just _what_?

Fuck, _fuck_. nonsensical, illogical, stupid. He can practically feel himself breaking out into a sweat. Words are so troublesome. What is supposed to — how is he supposed to —

Mutsuki is straightening up, bringing his knees together. He takes a breath, and opens his mouth.

“Y-you know, Urie-kun…”

Mutsuki trails — covers his mouth, almost his whole face. When he speaks again, it’s barely a whisper.

“I think,” he says, “that, ah, sometimes, you — y-you — sort of — smell pretty good to me too.”

And Urie knows exactly what he means, even before he reaches for Urie’s shirt.


End file.
